


It's Hard to Tell

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Series: You and You [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 13:36:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6155362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One <i>is</i> the loneliest number....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving old fic from 2013 - I actually haven't listened since ep 33, from the looks of things, so everything I post will likely be terribly non-canon-compliant. No comment spoilers, please--I do intend to get caught up!

Snatched out of his hands by the wind, the door to the lab's roof slams into the wall hard enough to rebound into Carlos' shoulder, nearly shoving him out into the growing storm. "Here!" he shouts, afraid to throw the heavy tarp he's brought in case the wind makes off with it before he can grab it back.

Morris glances over his shoulder as Lindquist pops his head up, the pair of them pausing in their efforts to anchor down the big telescope Lindquist spends most of his nights glued to. They have it folded down into a squat hunch, lens covered tightly, but Carlos doubts that will hold up to the fury of a sandstorm. He just wishes they'd had more time to prepare than the ten-minute warning the City Council bothered to give.

Lindquist meets him halfway, grabbing the tarp with a grateful grimace and a swift headshake. "We've got it up here!" he shouts as a sudden gust blows their lab coats tight around their legs. "Soon as we wrap Baby up, we'll meet the rest of you in the break room!"

"You're sure?" Carlos asks uncertainly. There _are_ other precautions he could be seeing to, but none of them involve leaving his people out in the weather.

"Positive, boss!" Lindquist assures him cheerfully, already moving away.

Carlos knows that's why he's being hurried back inside. He's the project head; they want him out of harm's way.

Before he bows to the inevitable, he looks to the north, breath catching as he's struck once again by the enormity of what rises from the wastes beyond the edge of the city. The cloud wall is massive, its surface drawn into the vertical rills of a rising thunderhead, but it doesn't only climb--it _curves,_ spreading out in a vast arc and cresting overhead like a wave. He knows there's a simple explanation; the approaching storm is nothing but sand borne aloft on air currents, which part like the course of a stream around the rock that is Night Vale. He still can't shake the feeling that the sandstorm is folding itself around the city, all the better to swallow it whole.

Ten minutes ago, the dust cloud was more grey than tan, stood maybe twice the height of Night Vale's skyline. Now it's a vibrant ochre, almost glowing, and has swallowed half the sky. The air is hot, grainy, but still just a promise of what's to come.

He ducks back inside, wrestling with the door as another gust whistles shrilly past. When he finally shoves the door closed, the hushed moan of the wind echoes like the hum of dead air through the quiet stairwell, atonal and eerie. Shaking off the shudder Borowicz has taken to calling the moan reflex, he heads back downstairs and follows a welcome murmur of voices that rises to an excited din. The others have already congregated in the break room, all of them talking at once though they all have their heads bent over their cell phones, thumbs flying.

"Twenty _thousand_ feet," Teasdale is saying as Carlos peers in. He sounds impressed.

Borowicz gives a wounded groan. "Oh, for--ground spores and trade winds," she mourns with a grimace. "I could be studying _disease vectors._ "

It really is too bad they didn't have the chance to set up an experiment or two ahead of time; as it is, they don't even know how long a sandstorm usually lasts. They might be stuck here for the rest of the day or well into the night.

It's only when Borowicz freezes with her coffee cup just touching her lip, peering into its depths with professional curiosity, that he remembers he brought in samples from his home coffee maker and that they're still in his car.

There should be time before the worst of the storm hits. All he has to do is duck outside and back in again. Simple.

The lab has a lobby area, but no one ever sits at the receptionist's desk and the windows are all tinted security glass. It turns the world outside amber-toned even on a clear, sunny day, but now Carlos is shocked to see the glow of streetlights in the middle of the afternoon, the sky gone the color of river mud. He's seen sandstorms in photographs, in movies, but this is the first time he's experienced one; he's amazed at how dark it is.

As he stares, his footsteps slow to a distracted shuffle, his eyes fixed on the deepening gloom. Nine months ago he wouldn't have hesitated to rush out into the artificial dusk, but Night Vale has taught him that inexplicable darkness is something to be wary of.

Feeling slightly foolish, he touches the front pocket of his lab coat, comforted by the slim aerosol canister that rattles against a handful of memory sticks and the name badge he never wears. The canister used to be pepper spray, but the librarian repellant Teasdale cooks up in his spare time is _lethal._ Practically. He hopes.

Taking a deep breath, he strides to the door, pushes it open, and immediately gets a faceful of sand and grit. Belatedly he throws an arm across his face, already-narrowed eyes wincing the rest of the way shut even as they tear and twitch convulsively. He should have ducked into one of the labs for a pair of safety goggles, but how quickly the storm keeps escalating continues to catch him off-guard.

Half-blinded by the dust in his eyes, he still has one hand on the door when he takes a step forward and slams right into something immobile, _alive._ Recoiling back into the lobby, he blinks furiously, an automatic apology stilling on his tongue as he meets the eyes of...himself.

It can't actually be himself, of course--it's a hallucination or a coincidence, clearly--and _yet._ The man standing before him is his height, appears to be his age, is wearing a white lab coat and dark slacks just like his, self-consciously professional. He's also traded his dress loafers for a sensible pair of slip-resistant steel-toed running shoes; Carlos is wearing the same brand and style. Their hair is identical, grown unruly again because no barber in town will let him past the door, and they have the same dark eyes...but that is definitely not his smile.

"Interesting," his near-doppelgänger says, mouth stretching in a slow smirk.

"Who are you?" he has to ask. The look he receives reminds him of his course advisor when Carlos vetoed the extracurricular activities she'd tried to talk him into, saying he didn't see what that had to do with his resume.

"Given our current location, do you really have to ask?" his double scoffs.

Carlos decides to dispense with stating the obvious, doubting any version of him will have much patience with that. "How?" he asks instead.

"As the sandstorm seems to be the only new factor in our environment, I would assume it's the culprit...which likely means much of the town will be meeting their doubles today."

It's...distinctly odd to watch the light of discovery dawn in his own eyes and realize it's an _unholy_ light. And it's true that he's curious how others will react to meeting themselves, but he's also worried. Even the most isolated outcast takes a certain amount of pride in their own uniqueness. Confronted with proof to the contrary, there's no telling how the average citizen will react, especially in a place as volatile as Night Vale.

It also worries him how eager his double appears to see the results in action. It worries him quite a bit.

"We should...make an announcement," Carlos decides, distracted by his mirror's air of preoccupation. "Get the townsfolk to stay indoors, out of the storm."

His double shrugs, slipping hands with the same faint welding scars into lab coat pockets that rattle just like his own. "Well, good luck with that," his duplicate says, turning for the door.

Carlos starts. "Wait--where are you going?"

That is _definitely_ not his smile.

"Radio station," his double says over one shoulder, pausing with a hand on the door.

"What?" That doesn't make any sense. They can call Cecil--that's what he always does when he wants to get a message to the town. It's what cell phones are for, research purposes notwithstanding. And Cecil is much less disconcerting to talk to over the phone. "Why?"

His double's laugh, low and anticipatory, makes the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably. "If you have to ask," his other self nearly purrs, "this is going to be even better than I thought."

Cecil. It's clear this has something to do with Cecil, only it almost sounds like his double means to--

"You can't be serious," he blurts, his stomach twisting uncomfortably.

"Why wouldn't I be?" For a moment Carlos nearly backtracks with an apology, inexplicable regret bubbling in the pit of his stomach, until he realizes his double's surprise is just a little too innocent. "All that devotion," his double says with a growing grin, turning away from the door and taking a step towards Carlos. "All that _worship._ You may complain, but you don't turn off the radio." He's closing the gap, but Carlos feels like his feet have been glued to the floor. His double is speaking the truth. Cecil's effusive compliments embarrass him, but he still listens.

"You think about that voice at night, don't you?" his double accuses softly, dark eyes boring into an identical pair, except that Carlos' have grown huge. "You play it back in your mind and imagine what it would sound like begging for your cock. Or maybe just begging." His grin is so wide as he leans in, eyeing Carlos sidelong, lips brushing Carlos' ear as he murmurs, "Can you imagine what he sounds like when he screams?"

Carlos jerks back, horrified, and grabs his double's arm when his other self laughs and starts to turn for the door. That unsettling smile goes sharp as his double stills, and all at once their stalemate is a confusion of pushing hands and grappling arms that ends with him pinned up against the wall. He breathes hard through his nose, his double's forearm threatening to crush his throat, every muscle locked and tense.

" _Very_ interesting," his double says, eyes glittering. "Tell me...are you trying to be a hero, or did you only just realize you want your share?"

"Fuck you," Carlos rasps, shoving against his double but finding no leverage to free himself. "Get off me."

His double laughs, shifting closer. "Well, I can hardly do both," he purrs, and he's--fuck, he's rubbing up against Carlos, and he's _hard._ "Now, can I?"

Carlos struggles, but he's a fitter article than he'd been nine months ago, which means his double is too, and it's _never_ been a bad idea to be smart and gay and know a thing or two about self-defense. His double knows how to keep him pinned, all the tricks Carlos would have used to get loose, and laughs at his attempts.

"Why so worried?" he taunts, rolling his hips against Carlos' as Carlos tries to twist away. "It's just like masturbation, in a way. I know I don't have the right _voice,_ " he purrs, leaning out of the way with a chuckle as Carlos tries to head-butt him and chokes. "That's what you usually think of, isn't it? Or maybe you're not thinking--maybe you're listening. Just you and the radio. Is that it?"

"Aren't you supposed to be my double?" he snaps. The imposter should know that he doesn't _do_ that, is mortified to even think it, although...sometimes things just _happen_ in dreams. But dreams don't count.

"I am." His double's smile has too many teeth. "How else would I know about your little radio host?"

"Not mine," he protests automatically.

His unpleasant mirror's smile goes flat. "He's yours." Some dark thought pulls at the corners of his mouth. "For a little while longer. If it's any consolation," he adds, leaning into Carlos, "it's your name he'll be screaming."

Carlos explodes, finesse and tactical planning forgotten. He ignores the spots dancing in front of his eyes, the soreness in his neck and the pain in his balls as his double bucks once against him like he wants to crush them. He'll break the bastard's hands--his legs--he's not going _anywhere,_ much less to--

He slams the back of his own head against the wall he's pinned against, trying to lunge back when his double's mocking laughter cuts off all at once. Dark eyes roll up, but there's something horrible in the way the imposter doesn't so much slump as collapse, every nerve and sinew cut. The _sound_ doesn't penetrate for long, breathless seconds: a muffled crack and the dull ring of metal on something organic, something that _gives._

Morris is standing over his double with a fire extinguisher clutched in his hands, and his double's skull is...wrong. Very wrong.

"Are you all right?" Morris asks, his voice pitched an octave higher than his usual confident baritone.

All Carlos can do is nod, edging away from the body at his feet and smoothing out his mussed coat with faintly-shaking hands.

Morris lowers the fire extinguisher but doesn't drop it; he looks like it will have to be pried out of his hands before he turns it loose. "What...what the _fuck?"_ he manages, peering at Carlos for answers, pupils wide and shocky. "I just...I just killed myself. On the roof. And Lindquist. I mean--Lindy killed himself too. That...what's going on?"

Carlos shakes his head. "It's something to do with the sandstorm," he says, forcing his voice steady. "I don't know how. Borowicz was saying something about spores being carried on the winds, but...I just don't know. We should ask," he says gently after a moment. Morris is entirely too pale, needs something to distract him. Carlos does as well.

"What, uh...what do we do with the...the bodies?" Morris asks as Carlos chivvies him towards the break room.

"Leave them for now. We'll need decontamination suits, and I don't want anyone going out in this weather." He'd hermetically seal the lab if he could, but something tells them that won't get them anywhere.

Morris shudders. They're never going to view _going outside_ the same way again.

There's something eating at him, and while he doesn't want to even think about it, it's imperative that it be said. "You...know that I'm not like--"

Morris' bark of laughter is too startled to be anything but genuine. He grimaces in apology in the next instant, but there's no uncertainty in his reply. "Wherever those things came from," he says, "I'm pretty sure it wasn't our ids. And you'll notice I knew exactly which one to hit."

This is true and also a relief. Carlos closes his eyes and doesn't drop the hand he'd rested on Morris' shoulder to steer him to safety, relative though that concept is. He lets Morris guide him for a few stumbling steps, the traumatized leading the blind.

"You sure you're okay?" Morris presses, prompting Carlos to pull himself together.

"Fine," he says automatically, intending to leave it at that. "Is the radio still working?"

He has no idea why he asks that or why Morris looks suddenly better, and also amused.

"Last I heard," Morris says. And doesn't tease him.

There's no real reason for his question. Carlos just finds that he wants to hear Cecil's voice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment fic - annotated_em said: _Now I can't help but wonder what everyone thinks when they hear Kevin's voice on the radio instead of Cecil's._

"Oh shit," Morris says, wide-eyed, as he watches the boss sit straight up from his shell-shocked slump at the center table. The radio had been doing its job nicely right up until that Cecil guy went traipsing off into a mysterious portal, which--well, this is Night Vale. Morris knows better than to throw around meaningless words like 'impossible'. He's not sure the boss even noticed Cecil's absence at first, and Morris isn't sure he blames him; having accepted popular fiction into his heart, he knows that killing your double is just common sense. Getting, well... _molested_ by, or...Christ, _he_ doesn't even want to think about it. Carlos' blank-eyed stare is perfectly understandable and perfectly manageable so long as Cecil keeps talking.

And then that _other_ voice comes on, too cheery and too bright, and starts babbling about a photograph of a man who looks _just like him_ \--

" _Get him_!" Morris yells as the boss makes a lunge for the break room door, and Christ, when is he going to remember how _fast_ the guy can move? Teasdale, thank God, is right in Carlos' path and sticks out a leg to trip him up, and that gives Lindquist time to tackle him. Borowicz dives on top of Carlos' legs as Morris hustles over, saying, "Boss, hey, calm down! You just told me not to go out in the weather, remember? C'mon, listen to the sound of my voice!"

"I don't think it's working," Lindquist wheezes, trying not to curl around the ribs that have just been introduced to the boss' elbow.

"I have handcuffs," Reilly offers helpfully, fishing in the front pockets of her lab coat.

Teasdale pauses in his uncertain hover over the dogpile, trying to calculate where best to add his own weight to the efforts. "Why the hell do you have those?"

Reilly _almost_ glances at Borowicz, who flushes just slightly around the ears. "Uh...I just carry them."

They really do need to figure out how to engineer stronger hazmat suits. Maybe a special car. If he puts it to the boss just right, Carlos will probably design it for them, and God knows Lindy will build any damn thing Carlos scribbles down, however--right. They're in Night Vale. He really needs to scrub 'impossible' from his vocabulary entirely.

Thank God Cecil comes back on right after the weather. Five more minutes and the boss would've been halfway to the station--and maybe halfway to finding out if he could be sand-cloned twice.

But Morris isn't thinking about that.


End file.
